


burning bridges

by memento_amare



Series: of kisses [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, F/M, Historical Fantasy, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, War, Warring states
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27610783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memento_amare/pseuds/memento_amare
Summary: (kiss: on your temple)you are his final regret. [reposted; error corrected]
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Reader
Series: of kisses [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018045
Kudos: 15





	burning bridges

**Author's Note:**

> OHMYGOD ??? I ACCIDENTALLY POSTED THIS W THE TEXT FROM SKINTONE CONSTELLATIONS
> 
> it's fixed now um sorry about that :(

the night is startlingly quiet, a contrast to the battles that ensue every morning. the rain has washed the scent of death from the earth. if he were a shallower man, less calloused, more naïve, he could pretend that there was no war. but the silence is no respite; it is only the calm before the storm.

his eyes shift to the figure lying beside him in the tent.

there’s something jarring about the first time you met: seeing feminine eyes through metal warrior helmets, a sword held between hands that society would deem too soft and too small. but you were neither. you faced him, fierce, terrifying, and beautiful all at once. you were ridiculously even matched, and if it weren’t for the horn calling for a ceasefire, you would have died that day.

he wonders if that would have been better.

it’s not hard to learn of who you are: the woman who fights on the battlefield alongside men. there is something intriguing about you despite his best efforts to ignore it.

-

it is midnight. two hands press into kenma’s injured leg. another hand, yaku’s, presses cool clothes to his forehead. a shadow appears by the flap of the tent. yamamoto draws his sword on their throat, hostility clear in the air.

“yamamoto. let them pass.” it is only when fukunaga appears behind the cloaked figure that the other man retreats, sword sheathed but hand still resting on its hilt. distrust shines ever brightly, even in candlelight.

he knows there is a healer in the other camp who is indebted to kenma. he does not expect it to be _you_.

it was a wild risk: kenma would have surely disapproved. but he cannot tell kuroo otherwise, literally so: he was the one with infection leeching through his thighs. you were on the enemies side. tomorrow morning, you will be on opposite sides, weapons drawn, faces and bodies slick with blood and dirt. that will not change.

but at night, you are not the most skilled warrior on the side of nohebi: you are a nameless medic, darting through both camps, healing with no loyalties nor boundaries. he catches you one too many times, in fact, but after you saved kenma (and even yaku and lev on other occasions), it’s clear that he owes you more than you owe him. so he lets you pass, sneaking you out of camp through secret passageways and lax patrol guards. sneaking you out becomes guarding you as you treat their injured. 

-

 _prayers of hope are only meant for the rich, and you are but pawns in the wars of old men._

when you first uttered those words in his presence, he nearly drew a knife on your throat, just like yamamoto all those nights ago. to speak so ill of the people whom he has sworn loyalty to is the worst of all sins in his eyes. but your eyes hold only conviction, and perhaps a little desperation as you say “come with me.” your fingers are outstretched.

another wild risk, one against every better judgement he had built all these years. but they begin to chip away when he looks into your eyes. he takes your hand. he’s never seen the world outside of their two sides; he’s always thought that he was born into this war and would die in it.

he begins to question, a dangerous thing.

-

meeting you becomes nightly, and even when you weren’t supposed to come, you do. a wild thing flutters in his chest. he realizes it’s hope. and _that_ is a hundredfold more dangerous.

he really should have killed you that day.

once it starts, it’s too late to stop. he falls headfirst, wind rushing past his ears. it’s too irrational, too unlike him. you reciprocate his kisses with frantic ones of your own, mouth open in tiny little gasps, and for once, he allows himself to be lost. once becomes twice. it becomes too many. touches become too tender to be rational. they are comfortable and linger too long. his heart should not have become this soft.

your black cape is draped on top of the two of you, while his own coat is underneath. you begin to move, thick cloth rustling as you move to tangle your legs with his. your head brushes against his shoulder.

both camps have sent in diplomats. they agree for once: end things at sunrise, a final fight to the death between the two best warriors. there’s nothing either of you can say about it. not only are you duty-bound but you also risk revealing your secret. you cannot run away: the war is all-encompassing, and the powers of your lords too much, a shadow that will follow you until you die a nameless death. you are pawns in the wars of old men. at least this way, somehow, you can die on your own terms.

there’s no other hand that he’d wish upon himself anyway.

once becomes twice, becomes too many, becomes the last. becomes tonight.

“you know…” his whisper pierces the silence. “i could have fallen for you.” he dares not call it love. it shouldn’t be, you cannot _afford_ it to be.

he keeps his body towards the sky. your face presses to his shoulder, and he feels it grow wet with tears. on either side, his fists clench, hard enough for his knuckles to grow white.

“i could have fallen for you too, tetsurou.” it’s the first time you call him by his name. now it’s the last.

he has already made up his mind on the outcome of the battle. night has not yet given way, but he must leave before you are both found. you are asleep; you don’t see the tear that slips down his cheek. his breath shakes. _of course he’s afraid._

the kiss he presses on your temple before he leaves is a plea to the gods to give him strength. his last burnt offering is the bridge between he and you. 

the dawn wakes to two figures on either side of a battlefield strewn with ashes; the only thing left of a bridge tied with red string. they were never meant to last. prayers of hope are only meant for the rich.


End file.
